Butterfly, butterfly Fly in the sky Butterfly, butterfly Flies so high Butterfly, butterfly Lands on my thigh Butterfly, butterfly Motionlessly lies Butterfly, butterfly Gracefully dies (Full transcript of poem ‘Butterfly, butterfly’ by Adryan Bates.) For a life that rarely goes beyond a couple of weeks the amount of cloak and dagger was overwhelming. I, for one, stood agape, eyes wide with incredulity and misted over with marvel. Lepidopterist extraordinaire Peter Smetacek held forth on the survival tactics of butterflies. Camouflage – trying to look like leaves and twigs –
(Buoyed by the inclusion of my short ‘Highway 666’ in ‘Have a safe journey – The world’s first collection of short stories on road safety‘ I thought I’d do another zany one. While the first one takes place in a world I am yet to accustom – the underworld (of the Gehenna-order), this one I am closer to – the blogging world. Inspired by some wily ones, similarity of any character to somebody you know can be negotiated.) ‘Like a gecko on Boomerang,’ Murali thought watching her flick her tongue out
We are on the Kumily – Munnar route, one of the most scenic drives in Kerala. I am being introduced to a large canvas – from where smaller ones originate. There are two via options – Kattappana and Udumbanchola – the latter, along which we are now, is simply breath-taking. Our eyes are alternately soaking up the lush rain-washed valley and peeled for the rare and endangered of the region – laughing thrush, wood pigeon, pipit and grassbird. We followed one to the overhanging ledge of a lay-by and
My favourite pastime while riding public transport in Kerala is listening to conversations of co-passengers especially when they are talking into their mobile phones. Then, this is like saying the bomber decides to die as his ticking torso goes off – there is not much choice here as they practically declaim into their devices. And this isn’t due to the engine din or network issues: my fellow folks love to be heard and to display publicly that somebody is actually listening to them. “I’m on my way to Angamaly,” went
The only woman passenger in the entire coach was furious and scared. Maybe she was furious because she was scared. As she huffed her way to the next, more inhabited, coach on the Patna Rajdhani, she kept taking photographs and venting. “I am going to send it to Prabhu right away. He should see the scam for himself.” She said clicking. One of the photographs, I think, has me in it. I am looking part dejected – she was an okay-looking sort and I was going to miss her –
The young sand sculptor was visibly chuffed as he stepped back to enjoy his creation – a mermaid. Recognisable as one from all angles. It was his first ever work, he claimed, beaming. I expressed a sincere appreciation and asked all the right questions – his name, place, where he stayed and even what he studied. Just as we were about to leave, the boys stepped in with their own questions. I braced myself. “Do you believe in mermaids?” Asked the eldest. The sculptor actually answered with something about human
The balmy gale that was lashing at me, trying to throw me, became a full-blown storm now. Motorcycling toward Delhi along the NH1, I was the only one on the road. Everyone else seemed to have scuttled to the safety of dhabas, parked beneath juddering awnings, huddled inside maybe over chole bhatura and lassi waiting it out. There was no way I could have seen it coming. Nor heard. There was nary a whistle nor a rustle. There was no dry duff flying around. But for that you need some
You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert M. Pirsig The mangy mutt watched me pack my gear with unblinking eyes teary under the neon street light. Gauging for threat it observed me limp around the motorcycle – from a gout flare-up the previous day – before limping away itself. It was 4 AM and I had the whole neighbourhood to myself. A new one, I had moved in to two days before. It
(This is a post on some people and events that led to my eponymous travel short. If it is the sights that interests you, just click on here here: Here.) The view from my embowered window threw up whole lives. The podgy old lady in the heavily mirror-worked Rajasthani gypsy attire left her home each morning at eight for a north cliff shop to clean up and hawk the rest of the day. She returned at 10 in the night, a wearied, rotund silhouette in the lightless alley. The matronly
Nothing moves like the road. From where I sat, staring ahead, I felt like I was hurled bodily into a wide-angled void. Into that bluish-green miasmic space between heaven and earth. Trees and houses, shops and hotels, people, ponds, fields and animals, lamp posts and electric wires blurred past as if some celestial puppetry. Between small townships were vast open fields which accorded unhindered views of rocky outcrops with the mandatory shrine on top. I felt like the eye of a storm, infinite powers at my disposal. In the distance
